"[...] I wanted to open the New Testament, the only book I want to have here in front of me, in a hidden corner of the attic, where I retreat, in the light of a poor glass tile, to escape human eyes as much as possible. My knees serve as a table; an old suitcase serves as a chair. ‘Why don't you write in your cell?’ some may ask. The good Lord saw fit to deprive me of a cell, even though there are several empty ones here in the house. [...] But I am content and I thank God for being born poor and for living, through His love, even poorer. [...] And that's fine. I need nothing else: obedience and abandonment to God, who works in me. In reality, I am nothing more than the poor and miserable instrument He wants to use, and soon, like the painter who throws his brush into the fire so that it is reduced to ashes, so too will the Divine Painter reduce His useless instrument to the ashes of the grave, until the great day of eternal hallelujah. And I ardently desire that day, because the tomb does not destroy everything, and the happiness of eternal and infinite love begins there. (pp. 132-133)"